Push
by Rebekah D
Summary: The look on his face is disheartening, like he's become hardened, lost his innocence. He's witnessed death, or war, or - he's lost something. ONE-PART vignette.


**Disclaimer**: I am not affiliated with the WB, Amy Sherman-Palladino or her and her husbands creation Gilmore Girls.

**Spoiler(s)**: Last week Fights, This Week Tights, Recipes and Raincoats.

**Rated**: R for adult displays of affection, if you cannot handle 40 Days and 40 Nights, Cruel Intentions, Unfaithful or Fatal Attraction leave!

**Author's Notes**: I started writing this hours after watching the season finale, it's called Missing-scene fic and there will be no other parts to it so don't ask for more please. I am not usually a Narco primarily I write Literati but seeing what ASP did I took the initiative and took her cue. I personally like the way the show is going, we never saw Rory screw up before on this kind of level and frankly seeing her give into her baser instincts makes me feel better about myself because she's been a freakin' Saint for four years! I'm going to embrace where ever ASP takes her creation, because it's her creation and we have no control over her. I had the same attitude when Fox Mulder was abducted by aliens in May of 2000, true I scorned the name of Chris Carter(Creator of The X-Files), but I kept watching and embraced his new characters and the new incarnation of Dana Scully without her first partner by her side. Do the same with Rory, abandoning her in a time if transition is just well- anticlimactic. And to my lovely beta Jewls who said I only read this because I like you, cause the idea of Rory/Dean is making me cringe. You rule Jewls, I will write a one part Lit smut fest soon!

**Push**

So now I'm crying in my front yard holding my cell phone. They cause brain cancer, the thought comes to me out of nowhere. Maybe the reason I let Dean, God - maybe I have brain cancer and that's why this happened. No, no, no, no I did this, we did this! I did this. Wh-what did I, I feel like I'm choking.

The knocks at the door are precise and unassuming.

"Hey." He says once the back door is open. He stands to the left hugging the door.

"How'd you know I was here?" I ask.

"You're mom said she sent you on an errand."

"Ah, you went right to the source." He smiles at that, it's almost like smiling is now a surprising thing that happens to him, like he doesn't do it anymore and when he does it hurts a little bit.

"Can I -?" He asks to enter.

"Sure."

"Thanks." He walks past me into the kitchen.

"I'm just trying to find some CDs for the Dragonfly." I start walking toward my room he follows dutifully.

"I hear Taylor's a big Hip-Hop fan."

"Oh, he hops with the hippest of them."

"You're room looks the same." he observes looking around my room, same yellow walls, same antique four poster bed, the Harvard memorabilia is gone.

"Yeah, I tried that whole French Revival thing, but it didn't really work for me." Walking to my bedside table and turning the volume down on my stereo.

"So, um, is it weird being back at home after being away for awhile?" He says. I start to stack the CDs I collected into a neat pile inside this ridiculous little box. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands so he gestures with them then self consciously places them on his hips.

"No, it feels completely normal."

"So, um - today...?"He moves towards me more, shuffling his feet all awkward and shy.

"Yes, today."

"An interesting day." He's not so shy anymore, he's more cautious, and damn it he's sexy.

"I'd authorize a case study if I could."

"You know, I could be wrong but somehow I had a feeling that maybe if Tom hadn't have come in when he did -"

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Lindsay."

"It's not working with Lindsay. I can't make it work. I've tried." The look on his face is disheartening, like he's become hardened, lost his innocence. He's witnessed death, or war, or - he's lost something.

"Are you sure? Because I've heard that the first two years of marriage are the hardest."

"We're not happy. She's not happy, and I can't make her happy."

I can't imagine that. I really can't, how can she not appreciate him, he's genuine, he's kind, he's Dean.

"It was a mistake and I know that now. From the very beginning it wasn't-"

"Wasn't what?"

"It wasn't..." He knows I know what he's implying when he cocks his head to the right. Am I the right side of his brain, his body?

"Maybe you could, um, go see a counselor or go away together." Straws.

"No, it's just - it's over. We both feel it. I know we both feel it." He's getting closer, I can see the fine dark hairs he missed shaving on his jaw line.

"You and Lindsay?"

"Yeah, me and Lindsay." Closer.

"You both feel it's over?"

"I tried. _We_ tried."

"Well, if it's over, I'm sorry." Closer.

"You are?"

"I'm sorry you're not happy."

"I'll be happy again. Things happen for a reason, right?" Closer, closer. His left hand touches my hair, the side of my head, he holds his hand to my cheek.

"Right. I can't believe this - that we're..." His face is so close, his head tilted to the side, his breath heavy on my lips. I feel his arm with my hand, his shoulder.

"I can." He kisses me, then pulls back for a millisecond, I reach out and search for his lips, kiss him back. I've never kissed someone like this before, let them push me, and let me push them. We fall back onto my bed. We're almost desperate, I always wanted to feel like if I didn't kiss this person, the person I am kissing, that I might scream or cry or throw something, that it was special, it was meant to be. I always wanted passion, and for the first time there's real raw passion, with Dean.

He's hovering over me and for the first time I don't want to run away from it to think, I want to just let things happen. He's hovering and my hands are on his head, in his hair, it's thicker now he uses more product. His facial hair tickles a little but it's nice. He hovers, I want more weight on me, I know he's huge but I want more contact so I run my hands from his head to his back and shoulders and push trying to coax him down. He complies. God he's huge, I feel the muscles in his back flexing and bunching through the cloth of his shirts. Too many clothes, I start for the front of his button down, undoing the lowest buttons feeling his stomach muscles contract through the thin layer of t-shirt that separates the flat of my fingers and palm from his skin. He pulls back looking me in the eye, his mouth open, breathing hot breath on my face, he smells like Old Spice and strawberry jam. He puts all his weight on his left hand, lightly cupping my cheek with his right. He's so gentle, smoothing his long blunt fingers tips over my cheek letting his thumb catch my lower lip. I chase his thumb with my tongue taking the digit into my mouth, feeling the grooves and indentations on his finger tip, the hard edge of his finger nail, he tastes salty. His breath hitches as I smooth his skin with my tongue.

"Rory." He whispers my name like he's amazed. He is amazed I see it in his eyes peaking out from under his shaggy hair. When did Dean become so un-groomed?

I slowly tug his finger from my mouth watching it come away shiny and pink, making me think of other things of his that could come away all shiny and pink. I close my eyes to the thought for a second, relishing in the imagery I never let myself really think about when we were together before. He'd be hot and thick on my thigh I think, his eyes would be closed, his breath all heavy like it is now. I open my eyes feeling his lips and tongue kissing my neck, I bend to his effort giving him better access humming my appreciation.

My hands find his shirt front again, almost blind I unbutton his shirt all the way, it hangs open creating a tent around me. I run my hands down his chest feeling him breathing, I let my fingers linger around the bottom of his t-shirt contemplating the top button on his jeans. I abandon the thought when I feel his hand reaching behind my back pulling on the bow holding my sweater closed. I push him gently at the center of his chest, he kneels with his knee on the bed his other foot still on the floor it makes me think of those inane rules they had for TV; where they couldn't show toilets on TV and during intimate scenes each character had to have one foot on the ground. I let the thought go, reaching behind me untying the closure to my sweater. He reaches out and I let him unwrap it, push it down my shoulders, bunch it into a haphazard ball, toss it over the opposite side of the bed. He runs his hands down my bared arms, I reach out smoothing the side of his face coaxing him forward. He brushes my lips, his tongue pushing past my teeth, massaging my tongue, I taste him sweet and resigned. We fall back, his weight on me, my hands feeling the cloth on his back, moving to his front, pushing under his dark t-shirt, feeling his skin, God his skin. I push up skimming his skin, pushing his shirt up. We stop kissing for a moment, whipping his button down and t-shirt off, throwing them balled up with my pink sweater.

I take him in. Dean shirtless. In the two years that we dated I never once saw him without clothing. His arms are muscled, not too bulky, he's almost sinewy, lank. His chest is defined lightly, the shades of a four pack, almost a five pack, his belly button fascinates me, it's this penny sized hole that could be described as cute but I won't. Hair, Dean has hair. A dark mess starting under his belly button disappearing into his jeans.  
I watch his hand slide down my side reaching the hem of my dress. He fingers the cloth, looking me dead in the eyes, gauging my reaction. I don't flinch or jerk away when his hand disappears under my dress, I don't even change the cadence of my breathing, I want this. His fingertips skim my knees, gentle on my lower thighs, he pauses his right hand his breathing labored. I cue him forward opening up thighs to more access, I want this.

The CD on my boombox finishes out it's last track and we're left without background music. I can hear the sound of my heart beating in my ears, heavy, steady, my own personal metronome. His palm moves cautious up my thigh, fingertips rough, palms calloused. I keep forgetting he's a laborer by trade now and not by choice. I twinge at the thought, I'm being bedded by carpenter, a amateur mechanic, but then I see the look in his eyes. Honest, loving, this amber brown that screams obedience and utter patience, he loves me and he's in awe of me. I reach my hand under my skirt and push his hand over my crotch.

His fingers are still but I am not. I clasp my hand around his wrist and push his palm up, letting him feel the cotton covering me. I know he can feel the heat. My other hand on his lower back massaging his skin, feeling his muscles jump. I let go of his wrist, his fingers playing at the edge of my underwear, I didn't coax him there at all. He skims the edge, teasing. I close my eyes and hum, at the sound he leaves the edges reaching for the elastic waist band pulling them down my thighs, past my knees, off my body. At that I push him backwards, sitting up his navel is right at eye level I squint at the waist band of his jeans, then drop all my convictions and undo the top button and unzip his fly. I grab the waist band of his boxers and pull him forward. I look up then, his mouth hanging open, his eyes half glazed. I don't care anymore.

I like the feeling of thin cotton being pulled up my thighs, my waist, torso, breasts, neck, head. Naked from the waist down I sit on my childhood bed with my ex boyfriend towering over me shirtless his pants hanging open like a rifled mailbox.

I fall back pulling him with me. My feet, arms and hands attack the rest of his clothing, pulling and pushing his jeans and boxers down his legs into a pile on the floor. He holds himself away from me, looking down at my bared legs, my bared crotch. I fallow his gaze, my hands steady on his back sliding down to his ass. My eyes take him in more, the trail of hair, its destination point always vague in my mind now realized. He's dark pink, smooth yet bumpy, the end this blunt mushroom like shape. There are veins running along the, the... what's it called? The shaft. When he breathes it bobs, when he breathes again it twitches, grows slightly bigger, raises its head higher.

I feel his hands on my back and I look up nod my head. He unclasps my bra and I pull the cloth away, holding the satin and elastic garment by my fingers tips I drop it on the floor with his jeans. We're both totally naked and for the first time in my life I feel hot without clothes on, except when I'm taking a shower but that's because I'm being pummeled with hot water. He stares at my breasts and I feel my nipples get harder. Touch me I think, and he does.

He's over me and the covers are pulled over us, it's like having two blankets one cloth one flesh. Our mouths duel, one hand on my breast the other slipping between my thighs. Our mouths fall apart as I gasp, his fingers touching me, his fingers going slick with me, his fingers, one, two, three in me. I turn my head and look at my bedside table, his ring shining dull on the wooden top. I start to breathe funny, like I can't breathe at all, like I'm drowning, choking, sobbing. I close my eyes.

It's like a head rush only it's between my legs and I don't want it to stop. His fingers still and slip away, grasping my hip bone he asks if I am okay. I open my eyes and look into his eyes, he's so open.

He's over me still, his hand away from my center, holding my waist instead. I feel him hot and heavy on my thigh like I imagined.

"Wait." I look up at him. He's scared by my word, he thinks I want to stop. "Do you have anything?" I ask. His eyes focus and realize what I am asking, he shakes his head.

"No."

I push him off me, he thinks he's done something wrong so he reaches for his boxers and jeans.

"I'll be right back." I say, his movements stopping, he nods.

Bounding up the stairs I know exactly where my mother keeps these things in her bathroom. I pull open the medicine cabinet not looking at my reflection and find an open box of Trojans. I pull out one packet and shut the door. There I am flushed and naked, my eyes bigger than I've ever seen them before and in my hand is something I only held out of graded propriety in high school health class. Closing my hand around the packet I ignore the flush of wrongness that washes over my head.

He sits up in my bed, pink bed sheets and Velour bedspread pooling around him but slightly- tented. I hold the packet up to show him he nods and smiles. I think we both feel awkward, but I feel it more standing naked in front of him. He lifts the covers and lets me slide in next to him. He lies on his side, me flat on my back, he smoothes his fingers over my cheek and my lip, my eyes closing at the sensation. I still have the packet in my hand, he reaches and takes it from me. I roll to my side and face him, our eyes lock as he deftly rips the packet open and removes the white latex circle. He stops, leans forward and kisses me- it's a short sweet kiss.

I reach for him, leading him to me, cradling him between my thighs. It's like nothing I imagined, but everything at the same time. He was hot and huge on my thigh before now he's pushed inside me, the pain I expected is great but bearable like the first time I used a tampon only hot, wide, longer. I close my eyes and feel his ridges, bumps, skin. I gasp when he moves deeper, I turn my head away. This is surreal. He sets a pace for himself asks if I am okay, I nod.

"Are you sure? Is this good?" I nod again, thinking just get on with it.

"It's fine." Please get on with it.

He moves faster, burying his head in my neck. He stops moving, moans deep and lets out a ragged breath. He pulls out, kissing me down my neck, my breasts, my stomach, I know where he's going with this and I'm nervous.

"Dean?" This is awkward.

"Yeah?"

"Um..." I don't know how to say this without saying it. "The blood."

"The blood?" He asks.

"Yeah, the blood." I say again.

Realization hits when he looks down at the condom covering his now flaccid penis, the tip stained with a bit of blood. He kisses me then, hard, passionate.

"I thought," he says after a a few kisses. "I thought you slept with him." I shake my head.

"No."

"Rory!" The front door slams. "Oh my God you're missing everything!" My mother yells, stomping through the front of the house and up the stairs. Dean and I look at each other and make a mad dash for our clothes.

Hearing Lindsay's voice on the line was like being kicked in the stomach and now the residual is this choking feeling. I can hear the sound of my mothers heels on the porch.


End file.
